Ankur Thakkar
Ankur Thakkar attends Northwestern University in pursuit of an MFA in fiction. A lifelong musician, it might only be coincidence that his name is pronounced ‘encore.’ He lives in Chicago and on Twitter at @ankurthakkar.
Ankur Thakkar attends Northwestern University in pursuit of an MFA in fiction. A lifelong musician, it might only be coincidence that his name is pronounced ‘encore.’ He lives in Chicago and on Twitter at @ankurthakkar.
But what if this book were called memoir? Suddenly the puppeteer is gone; the people are real, the plot is preordained, and the “I” narrator is also the author. Can we read on equally engaged, or do we pull back from a narrator too unreliable to tell a true story? In this five part TriQuarterly series, five writers of nonfiction and one writer of fiction brainstorm creative ways for writers to make themselves unreliable narrators—with playful, conflicted, and imaginative results.
For this kind of nonfiction to work, there has to be an “I” who is not “I,” a narrator who is both author and character, a narrator in whom we see the split or, at least, a tear. The author steadies us while the character grows untrustworthy. In this five part TriQuarterly series, five writers of nonfiction and one writer of fiction brainstorm creative ways for writers to make themselves unreliable narrators—with playful, conflicted, and imaginative results.
I wanted to approach this subject of an unreliable narrator in creative nonfiction by talking about some very personal memoirs I’ve been writing about my father. My father drives me crazy. Bat-shit crazy. I’ve spent years diagnosing him. In this five part TriQuarterly series, five writers of nonfiction and one writer of fiction brainstorm creative ways for writers to make themselves unreliable narrators—with playful, conflicted, and imaginative results.
A good number of memoirists are writing not so much to confess or tell their stories as to discover, hopefully, through the writing, what poets and fiction writers often describe as finding out “what we didn’t know we knew.” In this five part TriQuarterly series, five writers of nonfiction and one writer of fiction brainstorm creative ways for writers to make themselves unreliable narrators—with playful, conflicted, and imaginative results.
"We’re quite rightfully concerned by the level of unemployment in the United States and the ways people were devastated by the financial crisis of 2008, but in the circumstances people face in a place like South Africa, 10 percent unemployment would be heaven."
“We all change; the things you want from writing, at a certain age, become different from the things you want later. I’ve avoided any obligations, and I still live like a child. I don’t have a wife and kids. I’m on my own. It’s a choice.”
"Blurring the Boundaries was inspired by my own frustration with facts."
My poetry won’t suit everyone. It has been described as dense; I’m aware of that response, so I wouldn’t say “I hope everyone reads it.”
Matthew Vollmer’s newest book, Inscriptions for Headstones, asks: when we die, what will matter most about how we lived? The issue of legacy preoccupies many, especially writers. When they die, they leave their words behind.
Both gritty and lyrical, The Cost of Living by Rob Roberge is a drug-fueled emotional rollercoaster ride that mainlines the voices of Denis Johnson, Charles Bukowski, and Jim Carroll, leaving you spent and shaky, looking for your next fix.
Has hagiography transformed a clumsy group of criminal conspirators into secular saints? Are subscription to an ideology and belief in common modes of action by individuals and small groups enough to constitute a network capable of autonomous action?
Norah Labiner is not interested in linear storytelling or books with a traditional beginning, middle and end. You should know this before you read her work.
